


“I Will Lead And Thou Shalt Follow ”

by Spiced_Wine



Category: The Silmarillion - Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Incest, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>~ It was said that Fëanor had little love for his half-brothers, yet Fingolfin followed him to betrayal and, ultimately, to death in single combat against Morgoth.</p><p>There were many lies handed down through the ages, and this lie covered something so forbidden and irresistible that no law could forbid it, neither could death or doom destroy it.</p><p>The Arc of Fire, the blazing thread connecting the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin encompassed three generations and thousands of years. It began in Valinor, in the Years of the Trees.</p><p>This is a prologue to <a href="http:"></a>Lords of the Light and set in the same AU as the <a href="http:"></a>Dark Prince series.</p><p><i>Fëanaro's aura was hard and as brilliant as forge-heated gems.</i><br/>"And wilt thou indeed follow me?" he whispered.</p><p>Rated Mature for incest and sexual content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains incest and graphic sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own and claim rights to none of the canon characters of JRR Tolkien's works. No money is made from these stories which are purely for my own entertainment. The plot and Dark Prince AU are my own,however, and may not be used, archived or reproduced anywhere without my permission.

 

~ **Tirion **

~ Before the Sun and Moon, there was another Light: two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, and from them radiated the Light which blessed all of that land, the land furthest west upon Arda - Aman, the Land of the Valar; Valinórë.

But there was another light, a greater fire, and from it sprang three jewels.

Once many saw those jewels which captured and gave back all other light, all colour, in a paean of glory. They were worn by the greatest of a race called the Noldor, the Deep Elves, a people of wisdom and knowledge, fire and tragedy. In those days they dwelt in Aman, the Blessed Realm, in Tirion, a city of white and silver, of marble and crystal. Their High King was Finwë, and his eldest son created the jewels, the Silmarilli. Curufinwë, his father named him. His mother called him Fëanáro, which means Spirit of Fire.  
And he _burned_. 

The first of the Elves, the Unbegotten, (for they knew no father or mother) awoke under the shadow of war. Looking west, beyond the clouds of tumult they saw stars and loved them, and thence came their name, the Eldar, the People of the Stars. Yet although they were the Firstborn Children of Eru, and the most beautiful of His creations, something of that shadow touched them. Even in so-called bliss of Aman not all were content, Fëanaro least of all. His was a mind which hungered after knowledge, and his fire did not always burn white. There was the capacity in him for great love, and implacable hatred, an arrogance which was so indivisible from his very soul that one could not imagine him without it.

In Ages long after these events, a saying came to be, which might have been perfectly fitted to Fëanáro and the Noldor: _Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make proud._  
Lies have become woven with legend through the sundering ages. But the truth, which some yet know, is that the greatest Powers did indeed wish to destroy that which they could not control.

~~~

Macalaurë was playing, accompanying some-one on a flute, and the two instruments wove a melody. Fëanáro allowed the balm of it to caress his restless soul. He glanced past Maitimo beside him, his mane of copper hair which had come through Nerdanel, shining with green gems.  
  
Nerdanel...Fëanáro's thoughts paused a moment to consider his wife, whom had departed from his house, dwelling now with Indis, his father's second wife. Once, Fëanaro had been fond of her, now her name was not spoken, and indeed she did not often cross his mind.   
  
He had been very young when he went to Mahtan, he whom had been tutored in metal-work by Aulë himself, and asked to learn all he would teach. Long after, Mahtan would say that the tall prince with the light-filled eyes had troubled him, and he sought to put Fëanáro off, saying that he was too young, that in his intemperance he might break more than he made. Even as he roused himself to argue, Fëanáro had seen a young woman staring at him from further within the forge.  
  
He learned that Mahtan's daughter often wandered far from Tirion and it was not difficult to meet with her (as by chance) and talk. It was not difficult either, to win her heart for she was already smitten, and Fëanáro had a lethal charm when he chose to use it. Mahtan could hardly refuse to teach his daughter's husband.

Calculation had instigated his courtship, but he found her calm temperament tolerable for a while, and was come to the age where his bodily hungers needed an outlet. That, and his dream of sons. No, not dream. Foresight. He had taken her willing body, and she got with child. So they had wed, and then came his dreamed-of sons. All of them he loved with a fierce passion; all of them he considered _ his _ son's. 

Nerdanel's initial eagerness in the bedchamber had quickly faded, in accordance with the Laws. She acquiesced dutifully enough to his desires until the birth of the twins, and by then she was a shadow of the smiling girl he had married, mouth gone thin with disapproval, eyes heavy with shadows.

~~~

Fëanáro's eyes matched the Silmarilli on his brow, capturing their light (or did the Jewels capture the light in his eyes?) casting it back in a wild flash. His gaze moved over the gathering and lit upon Artanis, daughter of Arafinwë. Her hair glowed in the mingling of the Lights, as she turned to speak to Findaráto, her elder brother, another beauty.

He had asked for one thread of her hair. She had refused; more she had refused with a look in her eyes of fear and even repugnance. She had stepped away from him, turned on her heel.   
  
_I should have asked Laurëfindë,_ he thought with an irrepressible gleam of mirth.

He had been passing through the Court of Waters that day, so named for the many musical fountains that played there, and he had turned, his glance captured by the shimmer of a fair head. 

As one who loved beauty in all its forms, as a craftsman and creator, he had stood perfectly still for a moment as an idea uncurled in his mind. 

Fëanáro, it was well-known, dislike his half-brothers. At times now, he could barely repress a laugh when he heard yet another rumour of their mutual enmity. It had been true once, for a while, and was still true of Arafinwë, who made no secret of his loathing for the Fëanorions. When Finwë married, Fëanáro had indeed been furious, believing he was supplanted, that Indis would steal his father's love. He burned with jealousy, though it had not taken him long to realize that no-one and nothing could come between he and Finwë. Nevertheless, he dwelt well apart from Nolofinwë and Arafinwë in the palace, and his restless mind took him often away. He was simply uninterested in his half-brothers as children, just as he was not interested in their own offspring, or not until they grew. Nolofinwë's children shared the raven traits of his own line, Arafinwë's were called the 'Golden House' for he and his get bore Vanyarin hair.

Artanis' mother-name was Nerwen, 'Man-Maiden'. She was taller than most of the elf-women, strong, regal of carriage. As she stood close to the pluming spray of a fountain, she appeared as a statue crowned by gold and silver. Yet such metal would cool and harden, Artanis' hair lived.

_That light..._ His thoughts leaped with a creator's sudden and fierce intensity. 

He moved then, his presence causing those in the court to look up as if his spirit touched each one with heat. He was oblivious to them.

"Artanis." His voice rang like a bell struck on a low, intimate note, sounding both as a question and a discovery. " Artanis. I will make a jewel to hold the light of thy hair," he declared. The thick sweep of his own jet-black locks brushed her gown as he raised his hand.  
"One strand is all I need," he smiled.   
  
He was obsessed, all his thoughts focused on one thing, and when his mind was bent thus, its sheer will was enough to have things seemingly form under his hands as if driven to reality by their desire to appease his vision. He was not however, obtuse, and he felt the moment that the horror, the antipathy flared up within Artanis. So violent was the rebuttal, that for a heartbeat it gave him pause.

_Well, she is my niece,_ he thought with a wry inner smile. Their consanguinity, and his desire was surely at the root of her reaction, and because there was nothing he feared to look upon, even those depths within him where the fire burned dark, he studied the implications again, and again discarded them. He was Fëanáro. Few had ever refused him anything, he expected obedience even, obliquely, from his own father. Besides, he did not desire Artanis in the way she obviously feared. He simply desired a strand of her hair, and had little experience in being denied anything. Only Nerdanel had ever said 'No.' to him. But the lovely eyes of Artanis held revulsion. Her voice was cool as she suggested he might use Nerdanel's hair, or his sons.

Only one thing prevented him from reaching out and taking what he wanted: Pride. And at her words that pride, woven with anger, caused Artanis to take a swift step back.  
  
Even as he stared at her, the gleam of red hair caught his eye and his eyes flicked briefly from Artanis to see Nerdanel approaching. Not far away his two eldest sons stood, held back by his will, or by the tension that had fallen on the place so that even the fountains murmur was muted. But Nerdanel walked on with the air of one whom has nothing left to lose.

"Curufinwë." Her voice was soft as she interposed herself between Artanis and Fëanáro. "Please."

His anger, like a beam of light focused through crystal, shifted itself and smashed upon her. The impact showed in the stiffening of her shoulders, but she did not move nor drop her eyes and in her own were shattered memories, a final acceptance that whatever had brought them together in their youth was gone beyond recall.

For a moment, watching, Macalaurë wondered if she essayed this to save Fëanáro's dignity, before he realized how nonsensical was that thought. His father would not care how he appeared before others.  
Fëanáro's eyes glittered over Nerdanel.   
_Thou art no part of me now, and what I do is no concern of thine any longer._

OooOooO

Long strands of red hair whispered from the comb, settled over the house-robe. Nerdanel set it aside, head bent, back stiff, as her husband entered the room, unloosing the ties of his shirt. She stared at him in the mirror. He was not looking at her, but after a moment, he did, and raised his brows ironically. 

"Once thou didst run to me, now thou art cold. Thy statues have more life."

A pulse fluttered under her creamy skin.  
"We were young then," she responded. "We are past the age for such desires."

"Past the age of such desires," he repeated softly, and then threw back his head and laughed. It was a mocking, hard sound, which brought the blood up into Nerdanel's cheeks.

"Dost thou remember what my mother named me?" He strode toward her ed toward her. The darkness of his hair brushed her robes.   
"_I_ am not past the age of such desires," he said through his teeth, and dragged his shirt over his head, ripping the fabric. He looked dangerous, wild and rich. Dishevelled hair rippled to his knees, jet over alabaster skin, perfectly formed sinew and bone, as if his spirit would settle for nothing less than to be clothed in perfection.

And Nerdanel felt a leap of pure revulsion.

"Curufinwë, no." She heard the panic in her cry. "I cannot lie with thee. It is enough!"

There was a strange scent of dusty ice, such as she knew from white Taniquetil, although the room was warm.  
  
Fëanor stared at her. "I am merely going to take a bath,” he said. “Manwë's hairless balls, woman!” (And that was blasphemy in itself). What is wrong with thee?" 

The breath went out of her. She felt, suddenly embarrassed. "Didst thou ever love me at all?" she whispered. "Is love only ever bound up with desire in thee?"

His black brows rose. "Thou wert eager enough once. What has happened to thee? Thou didst look as if I meant to take thee by force, Did I ever?"

She could not answer. She did not know, only that the thought of his inside her made her flesh shrink on her bones. All Elves came to this time, when bodily hungers faded. And had she not done enough? Once she had wanted him, yes, despite her father's warnings that she would not be happy, despite her own doubts. She had been dazzled, had ached for him, yet knowing as all did that marriage was for the begetting of children, not for the tinsel pleasures of sex, so brief and so unimportant. In that, her husband had never disappointed her. In fact, he had grown to alarm her with his furious intensity. He controlled himself, she became aware, shut the door on all but a few tendrils of his furnace. She was a woman, and she knew this, and that it frustrated him, but he could alarm her in the bedroom, and even his gentlest lovemaking left her limp.   
  
He was watching her. There was a distant curiosity in his eyes but nothing else. No real interest, and certainly no desire. She had jumped at shadows that were not even there. Then he was gone from their shared dressing-room into his own bed-chamber. She knew then that was the end, though in truth their marriage had fallen apart long before. They held its fragility together for the sake of the sons she could not seem to stop producing, a byword and a cause for raised eyebrows. If not for them, who had little of her in them but the gleaming copper heads of Maitimo and Ambarussa, the marriage would not have lasted a year. 

~~~

"Leave me," he said, and turned his back.  
Macalaurë moved then, his heart aching. He felt the force of his father's eyes move to him, and met them with love and with sorrow. He sensed Maitimo close by, joining with him, and in the end, it was Fëanaro's sons who enabled the moment to pass. Yet, like the aftermath of the tolling of a bell, danger still reverberated in the air.

"Take her away, Nelyafinwë, Canafinwe," Fëanáro said quietly, then deliberately, he looked back at Artanis. "I think thou wilt regret, for a very long time, that thou didst not accede to such a simple, _innocent_ request." He turned with a lilt of raven hair, dismissing her, a force that passed through the court like a wave.

Macalaurë took his mother by one arm and lead her toward the steps. The sound of water and birdsong returned. All was as it had been yet changed, something in his father, in the air, in Fate itself.

And Fëanáro strode to Ezellohar, and the Trees, whose mingled Lights in Artanis' hair, had enthralled him.

And so...and so perhaps it began there.

He stood in a light like water. It limned his hands as he lifted one, delineating each slim finger. The mingling of the Lights; a gift, a blessing to all Aman.  
But only to Aman.

Thus the beginning – of the end...?

~~~

The Noldor had long ago discovered the raw gems of the earth and worked them. And then Fëanáro was born and created gems in the hot and cold forges of the Smiths Halls. As with gems, so with metals, and it came to pass that the Noldor outstripped the Valar their teachers, just as children may sometimes surpass those who tutor them.

_This light..._ His eyes turned to look toward the gleaming spires and white-needle towers of Tirion and a sensuous smile curved his mouth. Artanis' hair, as she stood in the court, reminded him of one who needed no light to make his golden head more brilliant. And that one was not so unlike him, just as others were not.

He laughed under his breath, thinking. All knew that there was no love between he and his half-brothers. What fools people could be, so easy to deceive, seeing only what they wished.

Ah, Nolofinwë... And the arc of fire runs on, to my eldest son and thine.

~~~

He bathed and stepped out onto the great balcony, hearing the clash of hooves on cobbles which signified the return of his sons.

Lead by Nelyafinwë, the riders entered the inner ward. Glancing down and to the left, Fëanáro saw his half-brother come out of his own doors. His hand held a very small one, that of his firstborn son, who was watching the Fëanárions arrival with wide eyes.

  
"Whom is that, father?" the child had asked as he watched a tall rider dismount. His copper hair swirled like a cloak of fire.

"That is thy cousin Maitimo, eldest son of my half-brother," Nolofinwë had replied, his voice low but audible to Fëanáro. There was some repression in the tone, as if he did not wish to encourage his son toward any familiarity. He was, after all, perfectly aware that Fëanáro had no interest whatsoever in him or his family. But before he could say more, Findekáno had slipped from his side, his feet twinkling as he ran toward the red haired Maitimo, straight in, fearlessly, among the stamping horses.

Nelyafinwë had picked the child up and carried him back to Nolofinwë, asking if he might take Findekáno to the gardens. Agreeing, the Prince had watched, thinking what charismatic force burned in Fëanáro and which in some measure, all of his sons had inherited. Suddenly, feeling a touch as of flame, he had looked up along the mighty frontage of the palace to see Fëanáro standing at the balcony of his chambers. Perhaps he had lately come in from smith-work or hunting, for he was naked to the waist, his mane of obsidian hair still wet. Fëanaro observed his eldest son for a moment, then those unearthly eyes moved back to Nolofinwë. A brief look like so many his half-brothers seemed to garner; the High Prince would stare through them as if they were clear crystal. Nolofinwë felt a heat sweep through him but held the gaze unflinchingly. It lingered a moment before Fëanáro turned and stepped back into his rooms. 

OooOooO

Now was the time of softer light. The gold and silver beams of the trees were faint and mingled. In this time many of the Eldar slept before Laurelin waxed into golden glory.

Leaving his father's chambers, Fëanáro almost walked into Nolofinwë, who stepped aside, inclining his head. Neither spoke. The courtesies were observed between them, most especially before their father, but they would make no greater effort. An perceptible pause ensued as Fëanáro's eyes lingered on his half-brother's face for a perfectly calculated moment. Then he walked on and there were none to note the faint smile on his mouth.

The wide halls and steps were deserted. His stride was soundless, yet the very air held aftershocks of energy as he walked. Halting beside a door, he pushed it open and entered his father's library.

It was Fëanáro whom had bettered the runes devised by Rumil, and now most scrolls and books were written in what was known as the Fëanárian script. His skills were not limited to one thing alone and ever he sought to learn more.

He picked up a book, cast himself upon a padded settle and tipped back his head. The book dropped to the floor, and he waited in feigned sleep for the one he knew would come.

OooOooO

It was so rare to see him thus that Nolofinwë froze. Fëanáro had set a distance between them from the beginning. When Nolofinwë was very young he had been awed and entranced by the impossible, burning beauty which was Curufinwë. In much the same way, Findekáno had been drawn to Maitimo. But when the famous eyes had looked at Nolofinwë and _through_ him, the child he had been had wept.

He and Arafinwë grew, Arafinwë calm, with the golden head of his mother, Nolofinwë prouder, more stern, who inherited his father's raven hair. He was more like to Fëanáro and Finwë in looks and bearing than his full brother.   
Despite the antipathy there, Fëanáro fascinated, drawing Nolofinwë's eyes like a fire, and when he was in a calmer mood, perhaps having completed some work, charm glowed from him like heat. For some his fire was too much; they drew back, scorched. Others plunged into its ambit. Nolofinwë would willingly have joined their ranks.

_I have never seen him asleep,_ he thought as he took a noiseless step toward the couch. It did not make Fëanáro seem vulnerable. He lay like a panther might, deadly even at rest, skin white as chiselled quartz. The long lashes were half-lowered over the eyes, casting a double fan of shadow across high cheekbones, the perfect, fierce face was framed by a scroll-work of hair which cascaded over the cushions. One long-fingered hand rested on his chest, one knee was half bent. Grace and power, for the moment, quiescent, the fire slumbering.

Breath indrawn, Nolofinwë let his eyes absorb the startling perfection, which when awake, housed such a force that even their own father could not withstand it. The column of the white throat was arched back in seductive offering.

_What drives thee Fëanáro, that thou art so fierce and so fell, spurning the love and loyalty I would give thee. _

A long tress of his hair moved, slipped over his shoulder as he leaned forward. He pushed it back, not before it brushed Fëanáro's hand, but the sleeper did not stir.

_ I hoped the friendship betwixt both our eldest sons might bring us closer together. Wilt thou let none but thine own sons come close to thy heart? _

With a soundless exhalation he straightened, turned away — and a grip like a vise closed around his wrist. The rich-timbered voice said, "Close to my heart? That is a perilous place, half-brother."

Fëanáro had been awake and aware, Nolofinwë thought with a flush of chagrin. Those lucent eyes captured his effortlessly, too intelligent, far too knowing...

But they were talking, and it was so very rare, and alone, and that was yet more rare, and Nolofinwë would not waste this opportunity.   
"Nevertheless," he said, heat in his cheeks. 

"Thou art not without fire, Nolofinwë, nor bravery. It takes a courageous heart to follow where I tread. Wouldst thou do that?"

"I would." _Anywhere. To the ends of the world._

"And cleave to me no matter where that path might lead us?" The steely fingers drew him closer, then loosed to run up his arm. They rested on his shoulder. "So strong, so very fair. I have seen thee wrestling, running...yes..perhaps thou doth have strength and courage enough."

"How can I prove it to thee?" Nolofinwë demanded, his heart in his throat at the thought of walking beside that fire.

"I am thine elder Nolofinwë, and thou must do all I ask of thee."

"Dost thou not know I would? Dost thou see only the works of thy hands and thy sons?"

The rill of lashes swept down. The modeled mouth curved a little, and then Fëanáro drew him nearer, long fingers slipping through his hair to the nape of his neck. "I _always_ see beauty."

The magnetism impacted upon Nolofinwë brutally. He burned under the touch that lazily traced his jaw, outlined his parted mouth. 

"And dost thou _truly_ love thy brother, Nolofinwë?"

Nolofinwë managed a "Yes..." through lips suddenly, comprehensively covered by Fëanáro's. His gasp of shock was swallowed by the kiss. The world, his blood stopped. And then fire exploded through them. His hands ran deep into into that glorious mane of hair. He dived like a swallow into sea of fire, and groaned at the wonderful sin of it.

_He is my half-brother, fruit of my father's loins, and oh, blessed Eru!_  
  
"This is wrong." He wrenched his head back.

"Truly? Dost thou tremble with disgust, Nolofinwë?" Fëanáro's amused voice made his name a caress. "Thy conscience tells thee this is wrong, yet thy body tells me a different tale." A soft laugh.

Nolofinwë was indeed painfully aroused. 

"They are right, who say thou hast no conscience, that nothing is beyond thee," he flashed.

"Do they also say that I never tell a falsehood, brother? That I have the courage to know what I desire?" Fëanáro tipped back his head, a smile bending his mouth. "Ah, brother, the Laws were not made by me, and by the One, they were not made _for_ me." He lowered his eyes. "Long hast thou watched me. Deny it not. Long hast thou desired to be watched _by_ me." He reached out a hand to the heat-flushed cheek. "And when I offer thee what thou hast craved all these years, thou wouldst turn from it? That is not courage, my beauty."

_ He is right. Long have I watched him. He burns, and there are so few who do..._

"And _thou_ doth burn also." Lacing their fingers together, Fëanáro, jerked him up. They stood breast to breast. The air between them was a living thing, and Nolofinwë crashed headlong back into that sinful kiss. And then...they were almost tearing the clothes from one another's backs. 

"What dost thou desire? Tell me." Teeth nipped gently at his ear.

"Thee, Fëanáro, I want thee!" He plunged to his knees. Shameless and amazed by his lack of guilt, he enclosed Fëanáro's erect cock with his mouth, gripping the narrow hips. He heard his half-brother make a sound, like a growl, like a gasp, then he pulled himself away. Nolofinwë looked up, aching with disappointment. The eyes looking down into his were as diamonds set before a forge-fire, windows to the spirit that burned within him. He smiled, a blaze of ice-white teeth. Nolofinwë felt drunk.  
  
“On thy knees, my beauty.” But his voice was so warm. “I am going to take thee now, and bind thee to me forever.”   
  
Nolofinwë did not think of disobeying. He went down, felt a cascade of heavy hair pour over his back, and then he hissed as a long finger slid into his passage. It was slick with scented oil, but it did not occur to him then to wonder that Fëanáro was so prepared. It was a shocking invasion, but he _wanted_ this, had wanted it for so long. A cry broke from him, but more of need than pain.

And then Fëanáro himself pushed in, and Nolofinwë's hands dug hard into the rug. So thick, so _heavy_, so desperately _wanted_. Oh, Eru, he was _ inside_ Nolofinwë, and had it been a thousand times more agonising, he would have welcomed it. It was ownership to him, possession, and not Fëanáro's, but _his own._   
  
Fëanáro withdrew and pushed again, and a completely unanticipated pleasure broke a mist of perspiration out over Nolofinwë's skin, curled like a predator into his groin. He swore in disbelief: "_Yes!_" , and slammed back, taking the pain with the rapture as both grew and entwined like some savage wildflower. He threw back his head.   
  
Fëanáro was not gentle, and he did not want gentleness. He was soaring now, the pressure growing in him. He felt the structured sanity of his days and nights break, and now he was in a place he had never known existed, insane, begging for more, and rising, rising...

He found release again and again with a violence that reeled him almost out of consciousness.

A hand swept aside his damp hair, ran down his spine. Lips teased the nape of his neck as Nolofinwë's orgasm worked itself out in throbbing waves. He felt himself clench hard about Fëanáro, still buried deep within, heard his half-brother's gasps. Then there was a husky laugh as he withdrew. Warm breath stirred his hair. He felt the imprint of lips on his shoulder, a soft bite.

"Finally we understand one another — and know one another — at last. How could we ever have denied this, my beauty?"

Nolofinwë shook his head. He heard the rustle of clothing as Fëanor donned his clothes, laughing that they were ruined.   
“Soon,” he said, and then the door opened and shut.   
  
Nolofinwë turned on his back with a stifled groan, stared up at the ceiling above. He could have lain there for hours, processing the experience, but dared not risk it. He took a long breath, was very careful as he slipped into his own clothes. (And Fëanor was right, they were ruined). His mind and body burned like a star. When he reached his rooms and looked in the mirror his face seemed entirely different. His eyes were _blazing_. 

  
He was shocked and unbelieving for days after that, expecting the Valar to mete out punishment. Incest was a sin, and Nolofinwë knew he should feel horror. He did feel shame, but overriding it was _hunger_. Having tasted the cup of sin, he wanted more. Its draught was as wine. 

Their next encounter was as unexpected as the first. Nolofinwë had been with his lords for several hours, spent some time with his father and, leaving Finwë's chambers, had turned to go to his own wing of the palace. That familiar sense of fire on his skin caused him to look back sharply.  
Where the hallway angled, Fëanáro leaned against the tapestry-hung wall. He smiled faintly. His eyes, in the shadow, cast a light all their own. He tilted his head infinitesimally in a gesture of beckoning.

_Come._

His flesh burned, his heart beat swift and hard, echoing in his ears as he walked along the empty hallway, following the long stride of his half-brother as he entered his chambers.

The door closed behind them. Nolofinwë felt a hand on his back, guiding him through the outer rooms to the bedchamber. There was a tear of velvet as his tunic ripped under Fëanáro's hands. He hooked one foot behind Nolofinwë's, and tumbled him back on the great bed.

"_Brother...! _" Subsequent words died unspoken. Fëanáro's mouth melted them away, and heard himself gasping, into the kiss: "Too long!"

"Much too long," Fëanáro agreed. “Art thou ready for me?”   
  
"Yes!"   
  
Although he knew what to expect, it shocked him anew as Fëanáro entered him in one long, hard thrust. But ah, so good! He raised his long legs, his fingers tangling in the masses of jet hair.

_More!_

"Beautiful..." The voice was wine-red velvet over his skin. Their moans and words mingled more savagely until both broke in furious climax.

Fëanáro lay back smiling, raised himself on one arm. His eyes sparkled over Nolofinwë's face.  
"We are not so unalike, are we?"  
  
A flood of cool hair lapped Nolofinwë's hot loins. His hands clutching the sheets, his back arching as the beautiful mouth closed over him and _Oh, Eru!_ roused him again. Wickedly, skillfully, Fëanaro brought him to another racking release, and then moved to bring him wine, smiling, triumphant. They drank and Fëanáro drew him back. The great mirror showed them intertwined, black hair, white skin, gemstone eyes.

"I need thee. Findekáno needs Maitimo." Nolofinwë flung one leg over Fëanáro's slim hips, resting his head on the hard shoulder. He felt the stroke of a hand down his hair and closed his eyes in surprise and pleasure. This closeness and tenderness was an unlooked-for boon.

“Is that not strange, both of us?”

"It is how it is meant to be,” Fëanáro smiled. “And thou must know I have never been against their relationship. It is Nelyafinwë who keeps thy son at arms length. I must speak to him or..."

"Or?"

"Or it will drive him mad," Fëanáro ended. "As thou wert driving me mad." 

Nolofinwë raised his brows. "Eru, thou hast driven me mad for years,” he retorted. “But thine eldest holds back for _thy_ sake. He knows thou hast no love for me." Dryly spoken that, and with amusement. His half- brother laughed.  
"My sons should know me better than that. And if Nelyo feels the same hunger for Findekáno as I feel for thee, which he does, then he has my blessing."

"Tell him so. Findekáno _loves_ Maitimo. It is more than lust." Nolofinwë lifted his head.

"Ah, Nolofinwëya, there is a great deal of lust, also. I know my son; there will be desire like flame."

"And in Findekáno, also. Is he not _mine_ eldest?"  
The words were arrogant, and Fëanáro smiled with appreciation as Nolofinwë straddled him, slid onto him with a gasp. And then there was nothing but Fëanáro, so fell, so beautiful...nothing but fire and light and glory.

"This is so wrong," he murmured after, languorous and glowing.

"Truly?" He felt the slim fingers glide down his back, a kiss on the crown of his hair. Felt the smile. "Is that why it feels so magnificent, my beautiful brother?" ~

  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


  
  
  


  


Nolofinwë - Fingolfin  
Nelyafinwë - Maitimo (Maedhros) father name  
Canafinwë - Macalaurë (Maglor) father name  
Findekáno - Fingon  
Nolofinwëya - my Nolofinwë (possesive)  
Artanis - Galadriel

  



	2. The Imprint Of Power

~ A sense of unease had settled on Nolofinwë soon after he rose from his bed. Laurelin's gold light was waxing over Tirion, and as he stood on the balcony he watched the shadows stream eastward, down Calycirya to the sea.   
  
He was alone, as he had been for many years now. After Irissë's birth, Anairë had simply drawn apart from him. Their intimacy, never passionate, had died like an unfed fire, leaving only cold ash.   
“I will bear no more children,” she informed him as they walked in the palace gardens one day. Her manner and smile were milk-mild, leaving no opening for disagreement on his part. She had always been placid, accepting sex as a duty rather than a pleasure, and Nolofinwë was not surprised.   
  
“I am sorry,” he replied politely, not meaning it.   
  
She looked up at him, elevating her fine brows.   
“I am glad to hear it. There is something crooked in those who would bed just for sport.” she sounded reproving.  
  
“Crooked?” he demanded. “I see no harm in it.”  
  
“Mayhap the Moriquendi of the Dark Lands would not see it as wrong, either.” There was no doubt of her meaning. “But they have not come to the Light, as we have. Go and take counsel with thyself and pray for guidance in this matter,” she suggested. “This is but the residue of the darkness within thee.”   
  
He had stared at her for a long moment, words rising in his throat, then turned and strode away without uttering them. Was there indeed a darkness within him, something that ran in his blood from older times? He still felt desire, though not for his wife, and as for Fëanáro, it was impossible to imagine his passions ever fading. The thought brought the blood up into his cheeks.  
  
There was no-one Nolofinwë felt he could talk to save his father. Finarfin, when asked of his relations with Earwen, had said coolly that they had passed the time of intimacy after the birth of Artanis.   
  
Finwë listened with that touch of sadness which sometimes settled on him and said, “I will not say that thy needs are dark or wrong, my son, only that the Valar would have it so.”  
  
It was an ambiguous response, but Nolofinwë understood; his father was High King, had accepted the Laws given to his people – for their betterment, it had seemed. But to desire after the time of getting and bearing children was over was not a _law,_ Nolofinwë said. It could not be.  
  
Finwë's eyes were unfathomable.  
“No,” he conceded. “We are told it is part of our nature.”  
  
“Did the Valar create us, then? How can they know our nature?”  
  
“Thou doth argue like Curufinwë.” Finwë smiled a little.   
  
Nolofinwë felt color rise in his face for a second time that day, and from the same cause.  
“I would not know.” He kept his voice even.   
  
Finwë had not attempted to reconcile his sons for a very long time, not since Nolofinwë's coming-of-age when he had held a great feast. Fëanáro had attended, had even presented his half-brother with a beautiful circlet set with three blue-white diamonds, but it had been clear to Nolofinwë he had come only at their father's urging. His manner was that of one constrained to do something against his will, and after his few words of greeting, he had walked away. Embarrassed and shamed by Fëanáro's obvious disinterest, Nolofinwë had yet been unable to look away and when Fëanáro flashed a smile at their father, his heart tumbled over in his breast. He longed to be the recipient of such a smile, to bask in the flame and the desire...  
  
As he thought it, across the space that separated them, the light-seared eyes flashed to his and Nolofinwë felt his blood flow hot as the molten metal that ran from the forge crucibles. His breath shuddered out of him, and he looked quickly away, taking a long drink of cool wine.   
No, not desire! Dear Eru, the thought was so unutterably _wrong!_  
  
A few days after, his mother had welcomed Anairë into her circle of women. She was a niece of Ingwë, the High King of the Vanyar, and thus close kin to Indis. Her hair was pale and her eyes, like many of the Vanyar, were blue. They were betrothed and wed within two years, and Nolofinwë sought to persuade himself that his moment of sinful hunger for Fëanáro had merely been his body's clamoring needs. He now knew that was not so. He had never truly slaked his passion with Anairë. Later, he believed that his mother had deliberately thrown Anairë into his path, but he had not much cared. He supposed he must marry some-one.  
  
His sin lay quiescent for many years. He deliberately avoided his half-brother whom was, anyway, often absent from Tirion, spending much time at his great manor in the hills. It was not until Findekáno was two years old that Nolofinwë saw him again. And then came _that_ day, and the days after it; living the sin, living the lie.  
  


OooOooO

Nolofinwë would not seek Fëanáro out. It was imperative that they arouse no suspicion, and indeed there was something of a thrill in their pretence, the aloofness shading into animosity, when they publicly met, which was rare. At times the enmity seemed so real that Nolofinwë demanded the assurance it was not. Fëanáro gave him that reassurance in full measure. Nolofinwë could never get enough of him, but there was hunger in Fëanáro also. It did not run all one way in their forbidden and fascinating relationship.

OooOooO

There were games being held for Finwë's begetting day, and many arrangements to be dealt with. Since Fëanáro evinced no interest in his half-brothers plans, Macalaurë often came to his uncle's chambers. Nolofinwë had always been receptive to the overtures of his nephews and nieces, and Macalaurë could have been Fëanáro, lit by a more temperate flame. Sometimes, in the aftermath of coupling, Fëanáro's face held that softer glow. At times, Macalaurë looked up, as if aware that his uncle were staring intently at him, but then he would smile, apparently undisturbed.  
This day, however, his nephew seemed troubled but vouchsafed no reason why, rather he withdrew further into himself. Often he appeared thus when playing his harp and his mind trod distant pathways. He seemed glad when Nolofinwë suggested they ride out; which meant, of course, that he did not wish to be in the confines of a room and under close scrutiny.

They left the city by the great road which descended from the western gate. The entrance to Tirion from the east was by way of steps of clear quartz, but with an eye to the practical, the Noldor had devised a great bridge leading down from the west gate into Calacirya. The road was high-walled, raised upon arches which decreased in size and finally levelled. The gentle slope allowed horses to be ridden in and out of the city. Beyond, the great Houses of the Noldor pastured their horses, and their banners flew above stone stables and barns.

Macalaurë said little until they left the road, but he glanced aside now and then, apparently on the edge of speech. Nolofinwë thought that this this was the great difference between Macalaurë and his father: Fëanáro was never reticent, though he had proved surprisingly adept at duplicity for one who cared nought what the world thought of him.

“Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“It is of no importance.”

“Is all well with thy family?” Nolofinwë asked.

Another sideways glance, this time under long veiling lashes.  
“Yes, uncle, insofar as we can be, in our family.” It was a jest, and he smiled suddenly. _That_ was pure Fëanáro, dazzling, but it faded after a moment and he said, “I wish father and thee could be closer, uncle. There are great friendships between our houses. Maitimo and Findekáno especially.”

Nolofinwë had learned to cultivate a varnish of calm. He said, “Whatever the differences between my half-brother and me, he does not object to their friendship.” Which was true.

He did not know what had happened to break the deadlock between his eldest son and Maitimo, but he knew _when_ it had shattered: not so long after his own longed-for surrender to Fëanáro. The strained, resolute expression Findekáno had worn for so long was gone. He was radiant, bore all the signs of being passionately in love and shaken to the bone by it. To Nolofinwë it was obvious, and surely to others also.

_Macalaurë knows. He is close to Maitimo. Probably all the brothers know. Is he wondering if I would approve? I cannot be seen to approve._ But he did support his son, and showed in all the ways he could.

“I am glad of their closeness,” he stated, smiling. “ Findekáno has loved Maitimo since he was a child. Who would be so cruel as to deny such love?”

Macalaurë's eyes widened, catching a flash of startled light like polished metal. He reached across and gripped Nolofinwë's arm.  
“I am glad to hear those words, uncle.”  
And so it was understood between them, but the shadow of concern did not leave his face.

_Does he worry that they break the Laws? And so they do. And so do I._ His conscience withered, time and again, in the fires of passion.

He wished he had some-one to speak to of the shame and glory that was Fëanáro, that was himself, but it was impossible. The Valar had decreed that even closeness among cousins was sinful.

“Macalaurë,” he said. “Know that I am always here if thou wouldst speak to some-one not a brother or father, but who loves thee.”

“I thank thee, uncle.” But he said nothing on their ride, which took them south toward the woods of Oromë. They paused to drink wine, laying back in the shade while the horses grazed, but neither it seemed, could relax.

OooOooO

Macalaurë leaned on one arm, gazing into the gilded distances.  
_ I wish I could speak to thee, uncle._ He brought his gaze back to Nolofinwë, dwelling on the passionate curve of the mouth, which was identical to his father's, the elegant wing of the the black brows forming a frame for the eyes, star-blue, like Findekáno's, the mane of glossy hair, black as obsidian. His father and Nolofinwë were strikingly alike in feature and form.

_How can I tell him, or any-one that now, when I see my father, I burn with lust. It is wrong, the Laws say, but I can only crave more._

Fëanáro had been in a strange mood for the last weeks, glittering, demonstrative, (as always) yet preoccupied. There was a hectic amusement at the back of his eyes, as if he were laughing at some-one. Macalaurë wondered whom the cause of this was. It did not seem to be Nolofinwë, at least, judging from his uncle's mood.

As they returned, they were joined by Maitimo and Findekáno, who had, they said, been looking at the new colts. There were threads of grass clinging to the copper and black hair, and Macalaurë drew alongside his brother and pulled them out while Maitimo smiled. Nolofinwë performed the same office for his son. Findekáno's lashes lowered, but he looked up again searchingly, his mouth tilting up as his father released green strands to the air. Nolofinwë kissed his cheek.

They passed through the north gate together and at the hub of three streets, Nolofinwë saw his half-brother striding purposefully up the Gilden Way.

Although Fëanáro's back was to him, there was no-one else it could be. The red shirt was almost transparent, resting like mist over wide shoulders, his hair was drawn back in three braids wound with scarlet and gold thread. The arrogant lift of the head, his gait were unmistakable; he walked as if he were High King of all Arda.

_Where is he going?_ That street was occupied by the sons of Arafinwë and their lords. Fëanáro claimed no friendship with any of them.

Maitimo and Findekáno were riding on, engrossed in one another but, as Nolofinwë reined in, Macalaurë turned his head.

“Father,” he said and the strain in his voice brought Nolofinwë's eyes back to him.

_What is it?_ he asked silently, and felt the turmoil, the love – and something he recognized all too well: shame.

Turning aside to one of the open gardens, he dismounted and reached out his hand.  
_Come._

Macalaurë tipped back his head, closed his eyes and loosed a long breath.  
_Maitimo asked me to flog him._ The silver eyes opened, searched his own. _ He was being driven nigh mad with his desire for Findekáno, and I...well, I did not understand. Our father did. I went to see him, after and he. He..._

Nolofinwë rested a hand on his shoulder.

_He did not..._ A banner of colour burned along Macalaurë's cheekbones, vivid against alabaster flesh. He was trembling lightly. _But I wanted it...I wanted it._

_I know. Whom could not want it?Thy father is...only the One knows what he is._

Macalaurë's eyes were wild and fiery. Nolofinwë allowed his own emotions to show through for a moment and they gazed at one another without astonishment, without disgust. Nolofinwë wanted to lean forward and kiss him, from love and the most complete understanding, but he checked himself. The desire was born of familial affection, the need to comfort – was it not? Or what was the deepest truth? Macalaurë looked so like his father.

He raised his hand, touched the shame-colored cheek and then, the call struck him like a sharp slap.

_Nolofinwë, I need thee at Laurëfindë's villa._

_So that is it._ He rose quickly, saw his nephew's surprise and said, _Fëanáro._

Macalaurë said nothing. He followed.

Ofelmo, whom had served Laurëfindë since he was a youth, was waiting. He had also, it seemed ordered the servants away, for the halls were empty. Which meant, thought Nolofinwë, that he knew something was amiss and was guarding his lord's reputation. Ofelmo lead them up the fan of stairs to Laurëfindë's chambers and then stood as a door-ward outside as the two entered.

Fëanáro had clearly dressed in haste, shirt unlaced, his hair loose, and it was also too obvious what had happened. Laurëfindë lay in a spill of gilded hair like a lion whom had battled another more powerful. He looked beautiful, but almost lifeless save for the rise and fall of his breast, and his eyes were closed.

If Fëanáro felt any embarrassment at his second son witnessing the fruits of his rape (was it rape? What else could it be?) he did not show it. He said in that voice which could seduce and command and enchant: “Stay with him, Nolofinwë. I need to bring something. He must not be left alone.”

“If thou hast...” Nolofinwë bit off with a snarl, rage blasting him from head to heels, rage and yes, jealousy too.

“He will live, I promise thee. Stay with him. Talk to him. Canafinwë, come with me.”

 

OooOooO

 

_Father..._

Macalaurë walked in a storm of emotions, the double blow of his uncle's unexpected understanding, and now Laurëfindë. Arafinwë's son, even if a disowned one. Was there nothing his father would not do? And what was the penalty for such an act?

He followed Fëanáro, who said nothing as he ran up the steps into his own wing of the palace. Servants and scribes glanced at them as they passed.

The chambers were silent, but for the wind-harps which caught the breeze. Fëanáro reached for his belt and unhooked a key, and going to a door in his bedroom, unlocked it.

There were no windows in this room. Lamps were set about the walls, but as his father walked to a slim casket fashioned out of some mirror-bright metal and unlocked that too, they were no longer needed. The Silmarils shone forth with their own light, catching their creators eyes which answered them with their own furious blaze.

“Come here.” Fëanáro did not turn, and Macalaurë stepped to his side.

“Father,” he began, but before he could say more, his father seized his hand and laid it over the center stone of the circlet.

“Feel that it does not burn thee, Canafinwë.” The grip on his wrist was a vise, but it was Fëanáro's eyes that held Macalaurë motionless. The fire that raged behind them was brighter than the Jewels, birthed as it was in a living soul, not an inanimate gem. For a moment it was all Macalaurë could see; it consumed his father, leaving nothing but flame...

“No hand unclean may touch a Silmaril without it be burned,” Fëanáro murmured. “So _they_ say.” His warm breath misted over his son's lips, which parted hungrily under the kiss. There was love in it, and compassion and feral, frightening desire.

“Thou art not unclean, my beloved son.”

“Father...” the word was filled with yearning and despair. When Fëanáro drew away it was as if all warmth had vanished from Aman. His soul was left cold.

“I needed to show thee, beautiful fool that thou art. As for myself...” He shrugged and closed the lid on the casket and picked it up. In his room, he drew out a pack, and slid the case inside, as if he carried a large book.

Macalaurë's throat felt swollen shut. He swallowed painfully, whispered, “Laurëfindë...what is wrong with him?”

“His spirit is in shock, but it will heal,” his father said. “Thinks't thou I would have taken him if I believed he would be irreparably harmed?”

_ I do not know, Eru, I truly do not.._  
“I thought Ektello was his lover.”

“Not yet, but he will be.” Fëanáro smiled with rich satisfaction. “Laurëfindë left his father and his very name because he would not be yoked to the Laws, but he did not go further than that. He needed something to light the fire inside him, the fire in us all that the Valar would starve of air and see gutter out. There is a furnace within Laurëfindë, and I need him and those like him to look to me as their lord.” He swept his fingers lightly, lovingly across Macalaurë's hot cheek, followed it with a chaste kiss and turned to the door.

As they descended the stairs, the sound of soft laughter floated up. Maitimo, one foot on the bottom step, was half turned toward Findekáno, who was smiling and shaking his head. Seeing his father, the warmth suddenly left Maitimo's face, to be replaced concern. He was always as quick as a cat. His eyes flashed to Macalaurë and he said, “Is aught amiss?”

“Nought,” Fëanáro passed him with a smile which included Findekáno, whose expression had likewise lost all humor.

_Brother?_ Maitimo's hand flashed out and caught Macalaurë's arm. _What is wrong?_

Fëanáro stopped in the centre of the hallway, on the great inlaid symbol of his house. The light streaming through the stained-glass windows high above the doorway melted across him like waves of fire.

“I will see thee in the solar when I return, both of thee.” It was a command. “Canafinwë, stay with them, it is always wise,” he added with the flick of a smile. _To have an unexceptional chaperon._

His sons alone heard him, and Maitimo flushed a little, his nod almost imperceptible. Macalaurë looked from his father to his brother and realized what Fëanáro was doing – the two cousins were so clearly in love that only the presence of another might provide cover for their union. But, Eru, there should be no need for concealment!

With a swirl of black hair Fëanáro strode from the hall.

OooOooO

Nolofinwë smoothed whorls of golden hair back from the pale face, his lips shaping murmured exhortations for Laurëfindë to _Return, live!_ and his commands were punctuated by curses aimed at his half brother. What had he thought he was _doing_? If there was any man who did not need to force another, it was Fëanáro, though his passion could be frightening.

There was a stir of air as the outer door opened and then the chamber glowed with the uncovered light of the Silmarils. Fëanáro drew out the circlet.  
“Lift his head,” he ordered and then leaning forward, he placed the circlet over Laurëfindë's brow.*

OooOooO


	3. A Jealous Burning

  

~ Maitimo and Macalaurë entered their father's chambers when his voice bade them 'Enter'. Fëanáro was standing looking out of the colonnade which fronted the long window, and turned. He appeared to have just come from bathing, hair damp, and he was simply clad in breeches, boots, his shirt unlaced at the neck. With one hand he gestured for them to sit and take wine. They did so, with a long look at one another, as he leaned against a pillar, watching.  
  
"Macalaurë has spoken to me." Maitimo's voice held a muted wonder. "It seems we have no secrets, now.”  
  
“We never did, my dear.”  
  
“Dost thou love Laurëfindë?"  
  
Fëanor laughed richly. "Love?" He moved restlessly. "An impossible word. I love my father, my sons." His eyes were warm. "I would have Laurëfindë serving me, in _ every_ way," His smile was dark. "Love?" He shrugged and touched Maitimo's face fleetingly. "This is not about love, but loyalty. Nolofinwë will follow me and his sons will follow him. Arafinwë and his get will follow Nolofinwë, Laurefindë is a different matter."  
  
_Nolofinwë will follow thee? Perhaps, unless thou doth use him only. I see things, I am not blind, nor deaf nor slow of wit. Our uncle has fire also. He will resent being toyed with, if that is what thou art doing. For I think he can also hate and feel jealousy father. Thy hands are burned with the facets of the Silmarilli...they were before this day. I fear thee. I have felt what thou canst do..._  
Macalaurë came out of his thoughts to see the famous eyes amused and thoughtful on his face. He flushed.  
  
"Dost thou know love?” Fëanáro asked tenderly.  
  
"Thou dost desire him, father. It is not love."  
  
"There is some desire in most loves, even if deeply hidden. I would have felt sorrow had Laurëfindë died, and so I placed the Silmarils upon his brow. They are more than even the Valar know."  
  
"Nolofinwë told me that to truly love some-one is to care more for them that one does for oneself."  
  
"And thou thinkest I could care for no-one more than myself?" Fëanáro threw back his head with a short laugh. "I did what was needful."  
  
With sudden passion Macalaurë said, "Father, be careful, I beg thee!"  
  
"_Of what?_" Fëanáro demanded, glittering. "I care naught for the rules and Laws the Valar foisted on us!" He swung to Maitimo." They smother us! But I swear it will not be for long."  
  


OooOooO

"I will not come with thee now!" Nolofinwë had flashed at his elder half brother. "Consider what thou hast done, how close thou didst come to ruin!"

"Then thou hadst better come to me later," Fëanáro had warned.

_He would use me! Has he not always used me? And I allow it, nay more, I crave it, I ever have! But he goes too far, I do not trust him, what will happen when his passion runs out of control? _

In his chambers watched the light bathe the city, as the Trees waxed and waned, silver and gold. And he did not go.

_ What am I to him but one who can burn in his fire, some-one he can slake his hungers on? _ The chased silver of the winecup dented under his fingers and he set it down with a snap. _ He goes too far, these last years...I follow him, love him, ache for him. But factions have formed and how strange that they formed out of rumors that we deliberately fostered! _

He did not go to where they met, not that day and not the next. The Trees shone undimmed and yet a shadow and a breathless, crackling tension seemed to press closer and closer upon Tirion.

Nolofinwë turned down a flight of shallow steps which took him down a hallway, and at the end, to a room. Beyond lay a garden, one of those which lay within the complex of the palace, small, beautiful, and private. It had been where his sire walked with Miriel, before she died. Finwë did not come there now. Supposedly, no-one did. Two people did: the son of Miriel and the eldest son of Indis.

Nolofinwë unlocked the door, entered the room. The window was open to the garden and he looked out, seeing a profusion of flowers, a small stream diverted over little terraces. The scent of honeysuckle and roses wafted over him and he wondered again at the destructive brilliance of the flame which had devoured Miriel.

There was a small click behind him as the door closed. He did not look around, but he said, "I came here to speak with thee, naught else."

"Truly?" His half brother's voice was smoky, amused but Nolofinwë felt the underlying tension woven through it as a harp-string about to snap.

Long hands closed over his wide shoulders and began to massage gently.

"Thou art as tense as I," Fëanáro murmured in his ear, fingers kneading at taut muscles. A flush swept up over Nolofinwë's cheeks, his head tipped back, his lips parting. He was ashamed of this wanton, helpless need, so taboo that it should disgust him, cause him to flinch back in abhorrence. It did not. A moan grew in his breast, passed his lips.  
"I can give thee all that thou doth need," he said on its heels. “Why Laurefindë?”

A husky laugh answered him, there was a whisper of breath against his mouth.  
"I do not love Laurëfindë. I need him, his loyalty, what he _is_. And I do desire him. And so thou wouldst refuse me?”

“I should.”

“But thou wilt not.”

Their lips met. They drank from one another. Nolofinwë drew the shirt from his waistband and pulled at Fëanaro's own, sliding his hands over uncovered skin. They loosed their belts, their kisses devouring even as they disrobed, sinking to the rugs.

“I do believe I love thy jealousy.”

The thrust of possession dragged another moan from Nolofinwë, and then the pain was submerged under a great wave of impossible pleasure. His fingers dragged down the hard back, locked about slender hips.

"Take me," Nolofinwë commanded as Fëanáro held himself tauntingly still. "Now!"

"Yes." There was a strained tension through the velvet as Fëanáro buried himself smoothly to the hilt. Again and again he nudged the hidden nerves until Nolofinwë was driven over the edge of control. Curses and endearments fell over one another: love, hate, love..._hate_ until release exploded through him, left him floating, misted with perspiration. His breath came hard and fast.

Fëanáro's jet hair mantled him, silk-cool on his hot flesh, then he moved aside and lay back. Turning his head, Nolofinwë saw His half-brother's profile hard as marble, but a faint, sensual smile of satiation bent the fine mouth.

"Tell me I am enough for thee."

For a moment Fëanáro did not move and then he raised himself on one arm.  
"Do not think thou doth not satisfy me,” he said. “But there will always be others I desire also. And so wilt thou want others." He rose and reached for his clothes. "I had better bathe, and so hadst thou, although I like to carry thy scent." His smile was a blaze. He belted his breeches, swept back the mane of hair, his eyes fixed upon his half-brother. “Am I using thee? Ah, my beautiful half-brother. Thou doth possess me as much as I possess thee." A sleek brow rose, then he opened the door and was gone.

Nolofinwë sprang to his feet, his legs still trembling with the potency of sex. He flung on his clothes, pausing at the odor of Fëanáro, so wild and rich, which seemed to cling to his skin and hair.  
_Thou art too fey, thou dost go too far! If I cannot move thee, it is time our father asserted his authority. Thy course is ruinous!_

He was jealous, furiously jealous, but he knew, even as he sank into the bath, that he would never betray what his half-brother had done. There was another way, the rumors and lies that fomented among the Noldor in those days could serve him.

 

"Is the High King in his rooms?" He asked the servant who entered with wine.

"He is in the Great Hall, my lord."

Nolofinwë placed his princely circlet over his brow and nodded.  
"My thanks." He fastened his cloak and strode from the room.

OooOooO

The double doors of chalcedony and silvery inlay were closed. Door-wards in tall, plumed helms bowed as Nolofinwë strode up the shallow, wide steps.  
"Open for me," he commanded.

"The High King meets with his Lords, Prince Nolofinwë," one of them advised respectfully, but they had no orders to keep out Finwë's own sons; indeed they had been summoned, but only the youngest had been found.  
"Thou wert called." A faint colour tinged Nolofinwë's cheeks and he nodded. "I am here now."

The doors swung open into a hall where light fell through high windows of tinted glass. Nolofinwë crossed it to the entrance to the Great Hall, which doors silently allowed him into a chamber where, above the High King's seat, a round window distilled radiance through the colours of the banner of the House of Finwë.

There was a flash and glitter of jewels and silk as heads turned to watch him enter. He paused once to bow to his sire and the Lords assembled before crossing the space to the dais.

He thought of his half brother, his dangerous, sensual smile, his desires...the word lodged bitterly in his mind and hung there, mocking him, as hot speech spilled from him, rang against the pillars. He knew well enough why these great Lords had been gathered, knew why so many thronged in the great square without, under the Mindon.

"Wilt thou not restrain the pride of our brother Curufinwë, father? "** he demanded. "By what right does he speak for our people, as if he were King?'' **  
Finwë's face was grave as he listened; there was a hush through the Hall, which seemed to spread like the slow pour of honey through the palace, down into the square and across Tirion.

OooOooO

"Father?" The knock at the door brought Fëanáro's head around, he dropped his hands from the last wet braid.

"Enter."

It was Curufinwë. "The King has called his Lords, a message came, but thou wert not to be found."

"For what purpose?" Fëanáro asked intently, going very still. "Why does he call his Lords and his sons?"

Curufinwë's eyes swept down. "I know not, but Nolofinwë is gone there. Those who reported it, said he seemed in a great hurry."

Fëanáro's eyes blazed. _So, have I pushed thee too fast at last? Is this thy snapping point? Wouldst thou indeed betray me and turn on me? I had thy word that thou wouldst follow me! _

He swung to the armor which he had crafted, set on its stand.  
"Accoutre me." He told his son.

 

The door flung back as Fëanáro stepped out and Macalaurë, at the head of the corridor stopped dead, seeing a figure in full panoply, openly bearing his sword. The fire-red plumes of his helm quivered in the wind of his long stride. "Father!"

"I go to the Great Hall!" Fëanáro walked as if he would knock his son back against the wall, and Macalaurë stepped quickly aside, and whirled on the ball of his foot, calling to Maitimo, _Father goes armed and with weapon to the High King! _

 

Like leaves drawn into the path of a storm the sons followed their father's furious pace across the vast square, and every eye there turned toward Fëanáro as if he were a magnet. The door-wardens did not move, seeming transfixed, and his own hands pushed inward the two sets of doors.

"So – my half-brother would be before me with my father, as I have long guessed!"

The great sword ran with light as he drew it from its sheath. He saw Nolofinwë's eyes widen as the bitter point was set, a flick of blue flame, against his breast.  
"Get thee gone and take thy due place!" **  
_Thou knowest what that place is, and thou doth revel in it, deny it not! Seek not more, Nolofinwë. Thou wilt not be above me! Do not think I do not know what is in thy mind!_

Finwë's hands clenched upon the arms of his seat as he rose but his second son, lips set, stepped back from the sword, bowed, turned and strode from the hall in the great, weighted silence.

"Curufinwë!" The High King's voice rang with command but when the wild eyes snapped to his, he realized that his son was indeed beyond him, perhaps beyond any-one.  
"Sire." One word, no more as he spun and followed his half brother, following the flutter of ebon hair and the impetuous stride. Nolofinwë turned at the doors above the square and was slammed back against the marble as the sword rose again to his chest.

"This, half-brother, is sharper yet than thy tongue!" ** His eyes were terrifying. "Wouldst thou have me cut it out?"  
_**I** am thy Lord, thou didst swear to me! _

_And thou hast cast my love and loyalty back at me and used me! What didst thou do to Laurëfindë? To me? To thy son Macalaurë? And to the rest? And for what? Thine own ego!_

A thousand faces seemed to watch from below. Fëanáro drew back, and something which dazzled red bounced and glinted at Nolofinwë's feet. For a moment he stared, then stooped, gathered it in his palm and descended the steps, head raised high and haughty, heart beating hot in his ears.

Fëanáro turned. His eyes caught the flash of gold and looking down, he saw Laurëfindë staring at him. Turukáno was there also, and many others who followed both sons of Finwë. All witnessed it and wished they had not, for though they were skilled with weapons now, they had never seen a blade drawn with intent upon another, and the wisest knew that nothing...nothing, would ever be the same...

There was a long-held collective breath before murmurs and exclamations broke out, demanding answers where none were forthcoming. After years of pride and rivalry, the cauldron had boiled over. ~

 

 

~~~  
**Chapter Notes.**

Quotations from the Silmarillion marked ** and italicized  



	4. “Follow me ! ”

  
''Why?'' Asked Arafinwë after the gathering had dispersed.''Why wilt thou release him? He is fey! It is writ over him.''

''Because he is my brother and our eldest, and because we now know whose deeds and words lie at the bottom of this! Melkor's!'' Nolofinwë almost choked on rage. ''Who spoke to us of weapons? Melkor! Who whispered that the Valar wished to cage us here because we were too strong, too powerful and would master the Hither Lands? It did not come from Fëanaro, not at first, though I believe it to be true. Who set abroad the rumors that I wished to displace Fëanor? From whence came the whispers he would have thee and I cast from Tirion? And all he said, we listened to like children! When I release him; we can mend this rent. I _will_ mend it.''

"He is not worth it," Arafinwë whispered. "Consider well."

"I _have_ considered."

  
Nolofinwë had called for Findekáno to wait for him in his chambers and now he went to him, finding his son pacing the outer room

''Thou must not go to Formenos,'' he said without preamble, and seeing the anger and denial leap in Findekáno's eyes he set his hands on his shoulders. ''I will release my brother as I promised and then we will heal this rift. But until then we must draw together our people in Tirion and bring calm again. We must show a united front here while this ban lasts.''

Findekáno's hands clenched, but he nodded, shoulders stiff under his fathers clasp. ''I hear thee.''

Nolofinwë looked into his eyes and nodded. ''The time will pass and I hope, my brother's temper cool now that all is known. And I need thee here and thy brother and my Lords. Father goes with his eldest and I must rule in Tirion. And so, out of lies comes truth,'' his voice was bitter. ''Melkor has vanished it is said and who knows what further malice he purposes? But Fëanaro will return with his sons and all will be set at rest. And thou and Maitimo may be together again.''   
  
''Dost thou think they would not welcome me at Formenos?” Findekáno demanded. ''Melkor's lies cannot come between us!''

''None can,'' his father agreed, kissing his brow. ''But I would not advise thee to go to Formenos, or,” he relented. “Not yet. Thou art my son, after all. I call a gathering of our Lords later and thou shall attend.''   
  
''Of course I will come.'' Findekáno embraced Nolofinwë. His mouth crooked. “I do not intend to let thee shoulder this alone.” 

His father watched him go, then poured wine, sat down at his table and drew forth a ring set with rubies in a circle of flames. This was the gleaming thing his half-brother had thrown at his feet, which he had worn since Nolofinwë had fashioned it for him.

_ Brother. Lover. I would never displace thee, but the words thou didst speak are like to cause more unrest and dissension here. Thou dost know I would follow thee always, for thy fire encircled me as the gems on this ring long ago and I revelled in it. I wanted to be possessed and mastered by thee and still burn for thee. I will release thee, I swear it. Thou didst warn me thy heart was dangerous to be close to, and by the One, thou wert right, but for what thou art...it is worth it...To join thee in thy fire I would break any Law! _  
He sat back, turning the ring over and over in his fingers.

The door opened and he turned as Anairë entered, her gown hushing around her. He was surprised to see her. She leaned back against the door and looked at him. 

''I am glad he has gone, Nolofinwë. Too long has his pride ruled even thy father. Indeed I feared that he would cast thee forth and my children. When I heard he was banished I thanked Varda.''

''It was Melkor's lies caused this,” And his own jealousy. “When the time comes, I will step forth and release my brother from banishment.''

''Thou art a fool!'' she exclaimed. ''Melkor's lies, but not without a grain of truth. Thy half-brother bears thee no love, nor Arafinwë either. He wishes to be the High King of the Noldor and thee the hound which fawns at his feet. And thou wouldst be so, would thee not? Because he is _ Fëanaro?_'' She stepped forward and clasped his arm.  
''Listen to me: go thou now to the Mahanaxar and take back thy word to release him. Rule thy people, bring peace to us here in Tirion! I gravely fear the darkness in thy half-brother, and that it dwelleth in all his sons and our eldest feels things which are vile and unclean for Maitimo. It is well that all his brood follow him to Formenos before Findekáno is tainted by that black fire and himself cast into exile.''

''I will not take back my spoken word !'' Nolofinwë blazed into white rage, wrenched his arm away. ''Nor usurp father's rule? What madness is this? And as for our son, thou wilt not besmirch the love he feels for his cousin!''

''Love?'' Her nostrils flared. ''There is another word for it!''

''That is enough,'' Nolofinwë bit. ''My word is my honor. I will not break it!''

''Honour,'' she repeated. “Thou hast none. Not any-more. Ever thou hast lusted to follow thy half-brother.”

He opened the door, said curtly, “Go.”   
  
“Well,” she said. “I did my best. But do not think this is ended. The Valar will not be mocked.” And stalked from the room. 

Shutting the door, Nolofinwë drew his hands back through his hair and picked up his winecup, drinking deep.

~~~

_Twelve Valian Years until Melkor, with Ungoliant, destroyed the Two Trees and attacked Formenos and slew Finwë the High King and then fled, surrounded by the darkness of Ungoliant, with the Silmarilli...and darkness fell upon Valinor..._

~~~

Nolofinwë closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, giving himself a few heartbeats to privately assimilate his grief, his horror, to test his own resolve of what he must do: Lead his people. Lead those who followed he and his sons. Findekáno would never remain in Aman. Maitimo was, of course, marching with his father.

_Father._ He ran his hands up his face and covered his eyes, his anguish brutal. Fëanaro's words echoed in his mind, so fell, so fierce that they had touched every-one...swords had almost been drawn again as he sought to reason in some way with his half brother, who was...

_He is fey, Finwe's death and the theft of his Jewels...And yet in some things he was right. Aman is not for us any longer. Not for the Silmarilli will I go, but to avenge my father and to find new lands – and because..._

Two fine hands slammed into the door beside his braced shoulders and he dropped his own reflexively, thrusting them against the hard body that barred his. He stared into eyes that blazed like the Silmarilli themselves.  
Fëanáro was disheveled, his silk shirt torn at the neck, the loose mane of ebon hair billowed to his thighs. His aura was hard and as brilliant as forge-heated gems.  
''And wilt thou indeed follow me?'' he whispered.

''Thou shall lead and I shall follow. I spoke those words, _ brother_, I released thee. I do not break my word. But hearken to me – ''

''What wouldst thou say to me?'' Fëanaro demanded, swift as a serpent striking. ''To be _patient?_ to wait, take counsel, allow the Valar to soothe us with lies, too idle to pursue their own foe from this place? Our father lies _dead !_ My jewels are stolen ! What do I need to hearken to, Nolofinwëya?'' The words were hissed out through white teeth, but perhaps deliberately, he added the possessive 'My Nolofinwë,' It worked.

''The oath...'' So fair, so fell, and quite mad in his fury.

''I will fulfil it ! What, art thou suddenly timid? I will wreak vengeance upon Morgoth and reclaim what he stole! I and my sons and mine own people if thine are too weak!''

''I am not weak, and neither am I insane ! He is a _ Vala_, Fëanaro!'' his brother snarled back. ''What dost thou intend, to challenge him in single combat?'' At those words they stared at one another. The diamond-fierce eyes narrowed a little. 

''Thinkest thou I would not?''

''I know thou wouldst, and if he uses the powers and strength of the Ainu, even thou wilt die!'' Echo's ran from the words.

''Then I will die _ fighting!_ not sitting here whining and wringing my hands, as the Valar !''

''We are damned anyway.'' Nolofinwë dropped his voice. “Whatever we do.”

''Oh, are we damned?'' The fierce, white smile gleamed, in mockery. ''For this?'' One of his hands moved and cupped a high boned cheek, but as it rose Nolofinwë's eyes widened. He seized it.

''Fëanaro...!'' The white palm was traced in silver lines: the multiple facets of jewels. ''They burned thee? Again?''

''They tried to.'' there was edged amusement in the tone as he raised both hands, showing the marks on each.  
''Bloody Yavanna's meddling, but let me tell thee something about the Silmarilli. They are _mine_. Yavanna tried to _hallow_ them (and what she really meant to do is ensure no hands but the Valar's touched them, for who is more pure?)” His lips curled in derision. “But not she, nor any of the Ainur created them. They hold the Light of my own spirit! _ And they did not give me that, nor create it!_ That was why I said my heart would break if I broke them. The Valar do not understand what I put into them. They do not understand their power. To break them? To re-create the Trees, which illumine only this land, for the Valar? Where we go we will take out own Light and make it!" His fingers unloosed breeches and shirt, and Nolofinwë tore impatiently from his own. Slamming his brother hard against the door, Fëanaro lifted one elegant thigh to glide over his hip, and drove in deep. Nolofinwë gave a muffled groan, his teeth closing on the hard shoulder.

''Let us be damned, then!'' Fëanaro growled, feeling the wild response, hearing the shameless words that urged him _harder! deeper!_ Nolofinwë's strong hands gripped his back, pulled him closer, his fingers dug into muscle, and they broke together in frenzy, breath mingling, rough and harsh.

''And the Valar would have it that this is wrong.'' Fëanaro twined his fingers in Nolofinwë's hair, drew back his half-brothers flushed face. He drew out a long, fierce kiss. ''A sin. I care not. Now.'' he held the silver-blue eyes with his own. ''Follow me. And we will make a place where such petty Laws do not hold sway.'' His voice was sensual, erotic and Nolofinwë groaned in renewed desire.  
''_Follow me!_'' Fëanaro stepped away and reached for his clothes, burning...always burning, until it seemed that the extinguished Tree Light itself was but a pale flame compared to what dwelt inside him.

Too fierce in the end, to inhabit a physical form....~

~~~

                                                                      



End file.
